An End to a Bad Week
by Aeria
Summary: River turns up on the TARDIS playing her usual games but doesn't realize that Doctor has had a bad week.


Title: A bad day at the end of a bad week.

Rating: M, muchly, because of, you know, sex.

Spoilers: None that I can think of but lets say Season 5.

Summary: River turns up on the TARDIS playing her usual games but doesn't realize that Doctor has had a bad week.

Warnings: A touch of dark Doctor and very, very slight whispers of dub-con. Slight, I think.

Pairing: River/Eleven

Genre: Smutty, maybe character study. Maybe.

A/N: Well it has been an epic amount of time since I wrote fic, or smut, or DW, but here I go. Kind of inspired by the kink meme but I got distracted and ended up with something that didn't fit the prompt at all so…I'm posting it here. Hopefully you enjoy it. Hopefully.

She really, really didn't know what she was doing. He knew that. Knew it damn well when she started batting her eyelashes at him and running her tongue over her teeth. Tried very hard to get the point across that this was Not A Good Idea. He tried shouting and glaring and drumming his fingers against things. At one point, he crowded her up against the wall and told her in short, sharp syllables that this was not a good time because he had had a bad week and he was cross and she was only making things worse.

Of course, who was she to know that he'd spent that last week running and yelling and being particularly upset by the inept actions of various humans throughout space and time. How was she to know that she was relatively new to him and he was not accustomed to how horny she got at the sight of him with ripped clothes and unkempt hair (well, more than usual). And that his constant insistence that she piss off was not a cute little way of egging her on but rather sincere.

No immediate danger, no companions in sight and he looked delicious. That was about all she really needed to know as she leaned languidly against the TARDIS console and teased him once more. He stopped then, shoulders sharp, head hanging low and a deep breath rattling out of him.

"River, once more, I am not in the mood for you, or indeed anyone, at the moment. I would like to be alone." He looked up and she just smiled seductively and stared back at him, her dress hitching up higher to mid thigh, probably on purpose. "Seriously, if there's not a planet to save or a intergalactic war to avert I think I'll take a long bath and then stare at a ceiling somewhere until I've calmed down." She was still staring at him like he was some kind of cocktail, ready to be sipped at, gulped down, whatever she liked. He did not like that. "River, I don't know you as well as you think. At all," he stressed, leaving no doubt as to what that meant. "So perhaps you should go and find another me to toy with."

She pushed off the console, purposely, had to be purposely, stepping towards him so that the slit in her dress spread revealing the tops of thigh high stockings and a glimpse of black garters. She chuckled to herself, wise, knowing. He hated that. "You've never fucked me, have you?"

The word startled him, he hadn't heard her swear before. It made his eyes slip from her thigh to her face to see the glee displayed there. A game, to be played, she thought she could just waltz in here, no matter what he'd been through, and fuck him. Her words, not his. Regardless of where he was in his timestream, regardless of the day or week he'd had, she could just do what she liked. He'd been staring at her a while now and her return stare hadn't faltered, her eyes still filled with amusement and glee and patience.

Just like that he snapped. Nobody looked at him with amusement and patience in their eyes: that's how he looked at them. Nobody materialized inside his TARDIS and seduced him. Especially not her with her knowing and her expectation. He stalked her and was pleased to see a momentary flash of alarm cross her features as she backed away and he grabbed for her. Legs hitting the console, arms automatically moving to hold on to it near her hips she had no idea what he was doing until he was up against her, one of his hands holding one of hers tightly against the cold metal, the other stretching around her jaw, tight and similarly cool. She had one hand left and quickly it was at his chest, spanning over a heart and feeling it's fast beating.

She fought the instinct to push him away even as she fought to keep her breath shallow lest she choke as his hand slipped to hold against the top of her throat. Dimly she became aware that he was hard against her stomach. Even through her dress (albeit a loose, flimsy thing), the garter belt, his shirt, she felt him, hard, hot, large. She swallowed. She knew damn well he was big, she knew that sometimes, sometimes when it had been a long time for her he purposely took things slowly because he worried he was big enough to hurt. She knew he was probably right. She always planned to someday ask him whether he was lucky or whether that was a bonus of being a Time Lord.

He pushed against her, hand digging in to her neck just long enough that she panicked as she fought for breath and hips digging into hers. "River," he said it like he'd said it a million times, low and rumbling and not quite sure. Intrigued and scared and a question. Eyes darting to his she saw only darkness and depth. "Have I ever told you about my first time with you?"

With a shock she realized he hadn't. Of course, he wasn't meant to, but he'd never even alluded to it. Was this why?

Hand relenting from her throat and wrist he stepped back, watched her as she sagged with, what? relief? He smiled and pinned her – as cliché as it is – with her eyes. She was too scared to move, too dignified to admit that fear and beg release. She could only stand there, half her weight on the console and watch, intrigued but no longer amused, as he shrugged off his tweed jacket and, thumbs slipping beneath, pulled his braces down to hang at his sides. He unclipped them then and for a second she wondered why: never before had he bothered, they just came off with the pants is a pile. A single hand to the bow tie as his other hand scratched at the back of his head and as he pulled it loose he asked, "Do you have even the slightest inkling of what's about to happen?" Almost imperceptibly, certainly unconsciously, she shook her head. "Or why? I've just watched thousands die. Not my fault, not this time. Not yours either, you weren't there. But humans," he spat the word, "they think only of themselves, only of their base stupid needs. Food, water, sleep. To be the best, always to be the best, never to share, but to win. To win power or land or a girl." He paused a beat to look at her with dawning understanding. "Sex," he concluded. "Such stupid motivations."

She kissed him. God knows why, but she thought he was talking too much, he did that sometimes, and now that he'd stepped back she could see him all sweaty and breathing heavily, she could make out the shape of his cock in his pants and she wanted him.

It was a mistake. He kissed her back with a ferocity that scared her. He hardly ever kissed her like that and never with his hands grabbing for her. He was always more careful. Tongue in her mouth, searching, sweeping, warning. Again, back against the TARDIS and she's trying hard to keep up, kissing him back and her hands racing over the planes of his back and chest and daring to move down over his stomach, hoping to convince him to do this properly.

He moves faster and harsher than she's used to, even from him. His hands, one in her hair, one at her breast, delighted to find it easily drawn from the lowcut flowing dress, kneading, pulling, just enough to make her wince and when he's got her there, distracted by the dull edge of pain, his hands make very short work of finding hers and slipping the straps of his suspenders around them. It's only when she yanks, smile fading, that she realizes she's trapped against the console.

"You're not going to fight this," he explains as he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it aside. "It would hardly be sporting since you've done it before." Without looking at her, he undoes his pants and slips them low enough on his hips that he can release himself from the confines and begin a slow stroke.

She pulls on the braces and is unsurprised to find them tight. He's tied her up before…after…but he always watches her with puppy dog eyes and asks, over and over, if it's all okay.

Again he crowds her, hands sliding roughly down her arms to check she's still stuck there then moving to her arse and pulling her up to sit on the console. It's uncomfortable and she doesn't like how automatically her legs have been spread to accommodate him. She especially doesn't like how now his hips are pressing against her very centre and is regretted how very smart she'd been when she hadn't worn underwear.

"Now Doctor," she begins, but a sharp shake of his head and a very belittling shushing, combined with his hands on her breasts makes her stop.

"No talking," he warns. "Do you like this dress, River?"

They've played these games before so she nods her head tentatively, biting on her lip for effect.

"Shame," he murmurs before pulling it apart.

There's a high pitched noise of utter bewilderment and anger from River as she looks down to find herself naked but for the shredded material at her sides and still held bunched at her hips by his. "What exactly do you think you're doing?" she asks, obviously upset, obviously unaware he would be like this.

He likes that, but doesn't like the talking and revels in treating her like a child, tutting as he runs a hand through her hair, yanking just a little. "I told you not to talk." She fights back as he wrestles her still and ties his bowtie around her mouth, effectively gagging her and stopping any further conversation. It's lost on her that he doesn't capture any of her hair in the knot and, in all honesty, he doesn't realize it either.

"I'm going to fuck you because you don't listen to me. Whatever we have in the future. You're past. Maybe this will ruin it. But you had better know now, better late than never, that I am like this. I have bad days. The universe doesn't know about them, but there are days when I hide in here and I just scream. I hate everything that has ever – will ever – exist. Including you. Including me. And you do not," he stressed, "get to come in here and try to get your rocks off while I'm like that."

She stared at him with angry scared eyes, stared down, terrified of how naked she was now that he'd let the material fall away to the sides and, catching his stare, knowing this was the first time he'd seen her like this. Wished it was some other way.

"Fuck, River, you are gorgeous. I can see why I fall for you."

She tries to speak when she sees the spark in his eye but it comes out as nothing and he grins manically slipping a hand down over her stomach and straight to her core. "Wet," he whispers, moving in to press against her and he slips a finger inside her and strokes. "Have I ever fucked you as hard as I wanted?" he asks, suspecting the answer.

He hasn't, she's always known that to be the case, always holding back a little and for a second she's intrigued, she looks at him and makes a stupid, regrettable decision, she spreads her legs further, going up on the tips of her toes and pressing herself against him, catching his fingers between them and grinding.

They have a future, she knows that, there are whispers about it in the night. She has her past with him, long, but not really that long at all. She's always wanted all of him, now she can have it.

Another finger slips inside her and he strokes harder, a moan at his ear unexpected and important. She watches him and sees the naked need overlying the vulnerability and that's a bit new. A leg slips up his back easily, sweat covering every inch of him, hinting at the control he's still got wound tight around his mind, holding back. Another meaningful moan, not passion or pain; pleading?

Staring, he knows what she means, wants the material away from her mouth and he wonders why. It's a good question, so he pulls it away, asking her why immediately, even as he moves his fingers out of her and up her body to hold her face in front of his.

"I won't talk," she says, not answering his question and then finds his fingers with her mouth and sucks hard enough that he forgets. Still cross and seething at her presumptuousness he soon finds himself drawn into a kiss, her body arching against his.

Hands on her hips he watches her, wanting to see the panic and seeing only voluntary submission. He's hardly surprised. Today was always going to be a bad day. He bites his lip to stop from asking her whether she's ready because it's not about that. He fights the idealist that says this is not a good way to start a relationship.

He thrusts hard into her, pressing their hips together and trying hard not to close his eyes as the sensation explodes inside him. It's been a long time since he did this. Much longer since he did it with someone he actually knew. He can tell that she's being stretched, can guess that she's used to a kinder and gentled him, one that would not track her down on a bad day to fuck his tension out.

Thrusts again and, while she doesn't talk, there's a whimper and he cannot help but look at her in concern. Bugger. She doesn't notice so he thrusts again, deep and tight and hot and everything kind of right and he's trying to hold onto the anger that began this even though he really shouldn't. Another whimper and he might be imagining the moisture in the corner of her closed eyes but he has to still for a moment, considering, of all things, the delicate art she's managed to assemble on the eyelids of those eyes.

He wonders where she's come from, what elaborate party could demand the complicated amalgamation of pink and blue and purple, the dark black mascara and eyeliner and the dark red lipstick that's now smeared across her lips. There's a spot at the top of her right breast where he's transferred a perfect imprint of his lips with that lipstick.

Mentally, he shakes off the affection he can feel growing and remembers the deaths, the anger and begins again to move hard into her, ignoring who she is and the small sounds escaping her pursed lips. There's no moisture in her eyes now and she's watching him. He doesn't like that.

Unable to proceed with her eyes boring into him, a hand finds hers, finds the binding and pulls it lose. "Turn around."

She doesn't argue, just quickly pushes him back and turns to stare at the central column of the console and wait. He's inside her again, feeling full and tight but better. She always gets used to the size of him, always loves the feeling of being overfull when he comes inside her. Now that he can't see it, she smiles shakily.

Hips against her, only her back and her hair to contend with now he sets an even pace, thrusting into her evenly, as hard as he can, making it feel as good as it possibly can. Maximizing friction and heat and all that. Pressure building, it's been so long and he's so on edge this was never going to last long. Leans closer, wanting to feel her against him and with him and without thinking he's buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply.

He loves the smell of her. Can't get enough of it. It speaks of times he hasn't visited, rainstorms he hasn't stood in, parties he wasn't invited to. And didn't gatecrash. Yet. It speaks of promise.

The anger melts into the pit of his stomach as his hands stretch around, startled, elated to find she's got one knee on the console and is quite well situated there leaving him to explore. He runs his fingertips over her breasts, flicking over her nipples and balancing the weight in the palms of his hands. Down her sides, always moving with the pace of his hips, the ebb and flow, the hard grasp and pull and push. Holding her hips for a moment before spanning her belly, pressing her back while his lips find her neck amongst her hair and lick and suck and bite. Both hands down, pressing her thighs further apart, burying himself deeper. His fingers find her clit, following the heat and the dull ache inside her stomach. Flicking again, pressing, experimenting as he feels her pulse beneath his mouth.

Her body excites him. He'd be a fool to think otherwise and again he feels something old and forgotten, something primitive, almost human, stirring inside him. He arches into her, fighting to get closer, deeper and hearing her soft mewl.

Eyes snapping open he can't help but watch the bounce of her hair. He rather likes that hair. Rather looks forward to considering the bounce of it from difference angles. That is, if he hasn't ruined everything. Still stroking, holding back a little now because he doesn't want it to end, doesn't want to ruin what might have been he whispers in her ear.

She's surprised to note the anger gone from his voice, the boyish shyness back when he speaks. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this." A beat. "As you probably know."

Not wanting to speak, not wanting to break the rules, she presses back as he moves inside her, fingers still against her urging her on. If only he would…she doesn't need to have this conversation now. "That's true," she slips out when she realizes he wants an answer. Clearly he has forgotten his own rules.

"I just sometimes get angry and you arrived at the wrong time and I know this probably wasn't what you thought it was going to be like and I'm sorry." He's really playing up the shy virgin now, even though she knows better.

Looking over her shoulder, she fights a groan. His hairs plastered back and she can only trace the long planes of his very young chest with her eyes. She's not really listening to what he's saying but he seems to still be talking about being sorry. He's also undoing the remaining wrist restraint. To herself, she rolls her eyes and when he next makes his shallow, almost unconscious, thrust in, she rolls her hips back and makes sure he ends up deep within her. The shock makes him stop and she takes the moment to lean back over her shoulder and kiss him hungrily. When she pulls away she judges she has a few seconds to get in a word. "I can talk now?"

He nods, unaware she's still happy to be the one taking orders. "Actually," he starts, "I thought you'd be a lot louder, a lot more talky, god, River, I didn't mean to do all that, I just –"

Another stupefying kiss. She's gotten good at those and he's been silly enough to tell her explicitly about the frisson he gets when she licks the back of his front teeth. Maybe he had this in mind because when she does he groans.

Staring straight at him she says, "I want you to fuck me." He looks confused, and about to talk. "Like this, it's obviously what you need after a bad day and I never knew. This is you telling me. It's," a pause, "exciting."

He still looks about to argue, evidently the oncoming storm has passed and now one can only expect sun showers but River's determined. "Now, open invitation, fuck me as hard as you want."

Still, not so sure.

But she knows, the experience she's had making her aware of his weak spots and he's told her to take advantage of them. "Oh," as an afterthought, but it isn't, "I am talky, I am loud. You can make me say whatever you like, whatever noise you like." The implication that he only has to carry on is there and with a hard, considering look he declares victory. Or defeat. And stretches his body until she's hoisted a little higher on the console and he's moving in and out of her with enough vigor that the sound of flesh on flesh, wetness and strength, is reverberating around the room.

For her it feels good in a harsh kind of way, in a tight, too tight, too fast, kind of way and his fingers have forgotten her, just gripping at her hips hard enough to leave fingertip bruises. For him, it's forgetting that there's ever anything wrong with the universe and losing himself in a softness of another human being, a human being that, he thinks, might just understand him a little.

Harder, faster, head falling back as he revels in the heavy breaths and grunts she's making every time he buries himself. Harder, faster, until he's almost lost and he tells her, whispers to the ceiling of the golden glowing TARDIS that he can't wait and he's sorry. She laughs, hitched giggles between the push and pull of him inside her and she whispers through her hair, "Come for me."

And he does. Wrenched from him, taking him over and he has no other choice but to lose himself in the woman bent over the console keening from lips he can't see in a high-pitching untranslatable language as she presses back against him. He thrusts, shallowly, feeling himself empty, sated, his hips still bumping against her arse until he finds himself, moments later, holding his breath and utterly still.

He's uncomfortable now. He always is after a bad day following a bad week where he storms around the TARDIS shouting. This might be worse. This might be better. He can feel her breathing under him and remembers he should too. Also, he should back away, be wary because this is not what she had in plan when she turned up in his ship, in the dead of night, in killer heels and a lovely dress.

He steps back and regrets it instantly for two reasons. Firstly, it draws a low moan form her as he slips, limp, from inside her. Secondly, it leaves her free to move and she does, turning around to lean back and stare at him. And, entirely his own fault, he knows, all she's wearing now are four inch black heels that make her legs look like they could wrap around him twice. Stockings that he follows up her legs to mid-thigh where they end in lace. Garters that he continues to follow to her waist (Oh, and what a nice waist it is) and then a stupidly lacy garter belt. And, of course, the tattered remains of a rather nice dress at her sides. She'll probably be cross about that.

Why wasn't she wearing knickers? Or a bra? He sighs, helpless but to stare at her, intrigued by the curves and the angles and the sheen of sweat. She's not ashamed of her nakedness and he wonders how used she is to him staring.

"How far in my future are you from," he asks, knowing she shouldn't answer but hoping anyway.

"Not that far," is the answer and he's left to interpret that any which way.

"Good. Now you know what I'm like." The unspoken implication that this is her 'get out of jail free' card is noted by her. "I'm brash, sometimes, hurtful."

"Not perfect?" she supplies.

He glares a little but softens, still hyperaware that she's naked against the console. "Yes," he tries on carefully, phrasing it, perhaps, as a question.

Her eyes drop. "You know I'm the only one who gets to know that?" A question in his glance up from where her breasts are stealing his attention. "Do you know how much I love that?"

She steps forward, close to him, pressing. She kisses him, not like before, nothing ferocious, nothing desperate, no competition. That doesn't stop her from licking behind his front teeth. The moan resonates with her own as his fingers slip down between her legs and stroke. He wonders if time is echoing backwards in that, telling him what to do, because he certainly did not tell his fingers to do that.

Her own hand covers his, her eyes saying he doesn't have to. "You have bad days," she tells him. "Don't we all? Only makes sense yours would be worse than the average person." He dips his fingers, her fingers, deeper, pressing until she gasps and looks at him with piercing eyes that remind him strangely of storm clouds reflected in a puddle. Pulling him close, her other arm loops beneath his and smothers him with her body, a leg curling around his back and their hands still intertwined at her core. "Please," she whispers into his neck and it is so much more than begging.

He grins unbelieving and flexes his fingers, leaving hers behind and stroking inside her, thumb at her clit, smooth circles pushing her closer. He's surprised, amused, bewildered, to find her so wet, so soft, so ready after what he did to her. More surprised still when her lips find his ear and start whispering to him. She says it's okay, says it's a step forward, says she's always wanted to see him likes this. She says she loves him, though she doesn't expect him to love her back yet. He's amazed to find his mind shaking off the comment, asking, 'perhaps…'.

She makes a high pitched moan, a noise he hasn't heard before and he wonders at it. At her. And strokes faster, his fingers long and searching, pressing and mapping and she asks, "Please," loud enough to sound around the room, her hair across her face and his as he kisses down his neck, whispering something against her skin and biting at her collar bone.

That keening again followed by a string of coalesced curses and prayers spoken against his forehead. She shudders against his hand as she comes, around his fingers, calling his name and he doesn't flinch when it really is his. Then she stills, hips gently rocking as his fingers withdraw, trailing up her naked body, fiddling absent-mindedly at the tops of her stockings.

Stepping back, his head tilts and he smiles, still not quite sure. "River Song," he whispers, marveling because he can't help it.

She smirks. "I have to go," she tells him, matter of fact, wondering what to do with the dress he's torn to shreds.

Unsurprised, he asks her, "Where?"

"Back to you," she tells him with a wink. "Or forward." She waits, thinking over their ever-so-complicated romance. "You've never done that before."

He shrugs. "I suppose you've never really invited me to. This time it was only because I don't really know you." There's a pang of sadness tinged with expectation in his voice.

"Next time you have a bad day," she tells him, "I'll know what to do." A smirk, an unbelievable smirk from the woman standing in front of him, wet and glistening and marked at her hips and her neck and her wrists.

He shakes his head because what else can he do. "I must remember doing this. I'll be waiting for it…" he gets lost in the temporal. Not many women can do that to him.

"Anything you want me to tell you?" she jokes as she finds her vortex manipulator and straps it over the thin red bruise on her wrist.

He grabs her unexpectedly, a rough hand on her backside as he draws her in for a last kiss. "Don't stay away too long," he tells her. "I think I'm starting to like you."

A raised eyebrow and she disappears in electricity and smoke. He's left with his trousers around his angles and half a hard on. He shakes his head and smiles and thinks that never, ever, has a bad week ended with a bad day that ended so well.

Well there's my first ever Eleven, first ever River, first ever Eleven/River smut fic thing. So please let me know what you think, constructive crit is very welcome. Cheers!


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